Ravensclaw

by Maggie MacKeever

  Being dead didn’t suit her. “You can’t stay here, Ana. Why haven’t you moved on?”

  “I don’t want to move on,” retorted Ana. “You can be sure there’s no tupping there! You called me and now you’re stuck with me until you give me what I want. It is your fault I’m dead.”

  Val regarded her with reluctant fascination. “How is it my fault that you took up with Teodor?”

  Ana twirled a strand of ghostly hair around one ghostly finger. “Because you turned vampir, of course. I wouldn’t have taken up with Teodor otherwise, or have wound up in the harem of Murcel the Magnificent, or have been tied up in a sack and dropped into the Bosporus to drown! And all because of a Nubian eunuch, may the snails devour his corpse. Don’t dare tell me there is a moral to all this, because now I would give anything — not that I have anything, but you know what I mean! — to be tupped again. That’s why I need your help.”

  “No!” Val said. “I will not—”

  “Not you! No offense, but you are a vampire. However, I have seen your stacks of books. Books about sorcery and magic and I don’t know what else. It should be simple enough to find a spell that will make me solid. Just for a brief time.” She pursed her lips. “Or maybe not so brief. I learned a great deal in the harem. The Lovemaking of the Crow was my favorite. Followed by Splitting the Bamboo. The Sultan, curse his bones, especially liked the Churning of the Cream.”

  “Enough!” Ana incorporeal was every bit as provoking as she had been in the flesh. “I’m no sorcerer.”

  “Pfft! You raised me, didn’t you?”

  “From what you say, it was Emily who raised you.” This was like trying to converse with a wisp of fog. “And I know of no such spell.”

  “Then I’ll wait until you find one!” Ana settled against the bedpost. “Since you’re dead, and I’m dead— Are we still married, do you think?”

  It wasn’t enough that Val must contend with missing athames and inquisitive virgins, now he must placate the ghost of his dead wife. He groaned and pulled the pillow back over his face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It is a dangerous fire that begins in the bed straw.

  (Romanian proverb)

  Emily paused on the threshold of Val’s small study. A chandelier with iron branches hung from the painted ceiling. Old oak bookcases were set against the walls. Faded rugs were scattered on the wood floor. A piece of seventeenth-century crewel work in the tree of life design hung near a fine long-case clock.

  Opposite the fireplace, in front of half-glass shutter windows, stood a large oak table with elaborately turned bulbous legs and square blocked feet. On the table an untidy stack of ancient books — she recognized Albert Magnus’s The Alchemist, the Grimoire of Honorius, Frances Barret’s Celestial Intelligence — perched beside a tray bearing an empty teapot and the remnants of cheese scones, a leather portfolio, an inkstand, and Machka, dozing on her back in a feeble splash of sun. Behind the table, Ravensclaw sprawled in a low-backed armchair. He wore leather breeches, and a shirt open at the neck. His auburn hair was mussed as if he’d repeatedly raked his fingers through the thick strands.

  If only she might run her fingers through it. Hands clenched firmly at her sides, Emily walked further into the room. She recognized the arcane symbols on the pages of the book Val had been reading. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to raise the dead.”

  “I am trying not to,” Val retorted. “But the sole banishing spell I’ve found requires powdered dragon’s blood. Why aren’t you wearing your pendant?”

  An odd moment, surely, to recall that a phallus made of amber was considered the ultimate protection against the evil eye? Emily raised her fingers to the modest neckline of her muslin gown. “You said the pendant would warn me if I was in the presence of evil intent. It didn’t react to Cezar Korzha. Perhaps it has lost its power.”

  “The pendant will warn you, by growing dark.” Val leaned back in his chair. “Has it occurred to you that Cezar might not wish you harm?”

  “It occurs to me that you may have good reason to want me to think so. How many of your kind are there in Edinburgh? Beside yourself and Cezar Korzha and, I assume, Andrei Torok?”

  Val rubbed his temples. “Tell me you didn’t accuse Cezar of being vampir.”

  “I didn’t. Not exactly.” Emily contemplated Egyptian Secrets, White and Black Art for Man and Beast. “Mr. Korzha said I was either very bold or very foolish. He seems to think I may be running some sort of rig with that dratted athame.”

  “You astonish me,” Val murmured. “What else?”

  Ravensclaw didn’t look astonished. Appalled might be a better word. “I believe I told him that he had windmills in his head. Don’t look at me like that! He told me that you’re a predator and I’m likely your next meal.”

  Val pushed the books aside. “I would never harm you, Emily.”

  She moved closer to the desk. “I don’t mind if you do. Or just a little bit. Unless— Is Lisbet Boroi your mistress?”

  “The less you have to do with Lisbet the better for us all.” Val reached out and stroked Machka’s furry belly. The cat curled herself around his hand.

  Emily slapped her own hand down on the table. “Answer the question, Ravensclaw.”

  He shifted in his chair, moving slightly away from her. “Let’s just say your life would be more pleasant if Lisbet didn’t take you in dislike.”

  “Why? I already dislike her. Lady Alberta says I should agree to marry Michael. Just for a little while. Not marry him for a little while, but pretend that I will.”

  Ravensclaw frowned. “Is that wise?”

  “Probably not. Once Michael has control of the Society within his grasp he’ll not willingly let it go. On the other hand, he’s hardly confiding in me now.”

  “Perhaps you might adapt a more conciliatory attitude.”

  “Perhaps you might show me how. I’ll pretend to be Michael, you pretend to be me. ‘Blast it, Emily, don’t go off on one of your queer starts now. Be reasonable. You must marry me. It’s what your father wanted. I will take your name.’ ”

  “ ‘Blast it’? Truly? I’m surprised you didn’t box his ears. Very well, try this.” Fluttering his lashes, Val clasped his hands to his chest. “You do me great honor, sir. I am flattered that you hold me in such esteem. Pray forgive me if I do not give you my answer right away. We helpless females require some time to focus our vapid little minds.”

  Emily bit her lip to keep from laughing. “But your eyelashes are longer than mine. And he doesn’t hold me in esteem. Ah. I’m presumed to be such a nitwit that I think he does.”

  “Precisely. Go on.”

  Emily paced the room, trying to remember what other idiocies Michael had uttered. “ ‘I had sought to give you sufficient time to recover from your loss, but since you have followed me to Edinburgh’ — that’s not what he said exactly, but what he meant — ‘Marry me, dammit, and I’ll help you get back your blasted knife.’ And then he lost his temper because Machka had sharpened her claws on his nice beaver hat.”

  Val smiled. “I see your problem, little one.”

  Was there ever a smile so devilish, so bewitching, so wickedly seductive as Ravensclaw’s? Emily pushed aside the tea tray and perched on the edge of his desk. “Last night, he said he wished to strangle me. For some reason, he is very anxious that I leave Edinburgh.”

  Val studied her face for a moment, then clasped her ankle, pulled off her sandal and propped her heel on his strong thigh. Sensation flooded her. He pressed his thumb into the arch of her foot.

  Emily closed her eyes. Val’s touch was heaven. “Cezar Korzha doesn’t trust me. Do you?”

  Val worked his thumb in a circular motion all the way from her heel to the base of her toes. “Trust you?”

  Emily changed her mind. Heaven could not feel so good as this. “Mean me harm.”

  He caught her largest toe and tugged it. “What are you talking about, Emily?”

  She opened her eyes. “I
had the strangest dream. You were doing all sorts of interesting things to me. And then I had the athame and you were in my power.”

  That certainly had caught his attention. Val was frowning as he took Emily’s ankle in his hand. “Did you like it? Me being in your power?”

  If he had shared her dream, he already knew the answer. Emily curled her toes. “I expect I might have liked it, but I woke up too soon. I think I would very much like to do to you the things you did to me in my dream.”

  His gaze darkened. “I didn’t send you that dream.”

  “Fustian. I’ve been dreaming every night since I first met you.” An odd expression crossed his face. “Are you brooding? I don’t think I’ve seen you brood before.”

  Val smoothed his hand over her calf. “Before I met you, I didn’t have anything to brood about.”

  Her skin quivered where he touched it. Emily experienced a shocking impulse to yank her skirt further up, and her stockings down. “I thought it was in the nature of your sort to brood.”

  “What sort is that?”

  “Vampire. Kudlak. Striga.”

  He kneaded her calf with his strong fingers. “Why should my sort brood?”

  “Why shouldn’t they?” Emily picked up the leather portfolio and began to fan herself. “A nonmortal by his very nature outlives his family and friends. He must deal with the pain of loss over and over again, all the while foreseeing an endless future of lost loves.”

  “Not so lost as one might wish,” Val murmured, as he released her and leaned back in his chair. “You paint a grim picture, little one.”

  “Oh, that’s but the beginning.” Since he appeared to be done with her right foot, Emily presented him with the left. “Your self-healing abilities can become a curse, for your body is capable of withstanding torture far longer than your mind. You could be eternally trapped inside a prison that wouldn’t let you escape into death. Then there is the fact that if you are deprived of, um, sustenance for a prolonged period, you will rapidly revert to your true age.”

  Val pulled off her other slipper. “A pretty thought indeed.”

  Emily exhaled blissfully as his hand cupped her foot. “There you have it. Vampire angst. Were you to discover how to animate a corpse, we could ask Papa what happened that day in the laboratory, and who took the athame.” Which might not be such a good idea, because once her mysteries were solved, Emily would have no more reason to stay in Edinburgh, and she wasn’t ready to leave. Not the city, but Ravensclaw. Hardly appropriate behavior for the overseer of the Dinwiddie Society, but there it was. Mercy, Ravensclaw knew his way around a lady’s foot. Doubtless Ravensclaw knew his way around a lady’s everything.

  Val interrupted her reflections. “You still haven’t told me why you aren’t wearing the pendant.”

  Because she didn’t care to be protected, specifically from him. “I’m not wearing any charms at all. Surely I don’t need them in your house. Unless you mean me harm?”

  Exasperation tinged his voice. “I don’t, but others might. You’re not immortal, Emily. Even I am not immortal, as you so recently pointed out.”

  She didn’t care to think of that. “You already died. What was it like?”

  Val grimaced. “Painful. I’ll spare you the details. I assume you interrupted my studies for a reason. What did you want?”

  To rib her hands and lips and body against his body, as she had done in last night’s dream. Unfortunately, Val didn’t seem to be in a similar frame of mind.

  Emily knew he wanted her. She’d felt his desire. Why he wanted her she couldn’t imagine, but Emily wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Or a gift vampire.

  At least, he’d wanted her then. In this particular moment, Ravensclaw gave no indication of being in the throes of lust.

  Appearances could be deceiving. This foot rubbing was pleasant, but it did not satisfy her. Emily slipped off her spectacles and dropped into his lap.

  Val went rigid as a statue. What are you doing, Emily?

  She wriggled into a more comfortable position. Sitting on your lap.

  So I see. But why?

  So I might more easily do this. She reached up and kissed the hollow of his throat. Nuzzled the underside of his jaw. Because I dreamed of you. Because I am tired of your acting so infernally coy.

  “Not coy, but prudent. One of us must be.”

  He was holding her away from him. Emily scowled. “I don’t see why.”

  “Permit me to show you.” Val’s voice had roughened. He cupped her face between his hands. She flattened her hands on his broad chest and stared straight into his eyes.

  His emotions swept over her, hungry and dark. Her blood went thick with longing as he gently loosened her braid and ran his fingers through her hair.

  “Emily,” he murmured. She blinked at him, bemused. Val bent his head and took her mouth in a kiss so deep, so carnal, that she forgot to breathe. The feel, the scent, the taste of him burst over her senses. Chin to cheek to brow. He paused to explore her earlobe with his tongue.

  Her skin felt hot. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest.

  He set her away from him. Emily touched her tingling lips. That kiss had been even better than her dreams. Now if he would just get on with whatever happened next.

  He didn’t look like he intended to get on with anything. Emily retrieved her spectacles, the better to study his face. Perhaps Val had not shared the intensity of her experience. Hadn’t felt the earth move, seen showers of shooting stars.

  She thrummed with excitement. Anticipation. Impatience. “Well?”

  “Well?”

  “You said you’d let me do things.”

  “I have. I let you have your first kiss.”

  Emily glowered. “What makes you so sure it was my first?”

  Val quirked an amused eyebrow.

  Odious annoying vampire! Emily kicked him in the shin.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Three may keep council if two be away.

  (Romanian proverb)

  The Twitcher was confused. He didn’t know what his companions were havering about, nor why they were both so sunk in gloom. Here the three of them sat, in their favorite oyster cellar, which had stone floors and tallow candles and wooden tables placed in front of a warm fire. If the air was far from fresh, it hardly signified, because here a lad could get minced collops, rizared haddock or tripe, a roasted skate and onion, and wash it down with pints of beer.

  Oxter and Mowdiewarp — so called because one resembled a mole and the other smelled like an armpit — were regarding each other gloomily. Oxter muttered, “ ‘Tis a fashious lass.”

  Mowdiewarp looked fair to weep into his beer. “Aye.”

  Oxter poked his haddock with a fork. “An’ she has a wulf.”

  Mowdiewarp picked up his mug. “Aye.”

  “An’ t’ other un.”

  Mowdiewarp took a great gulp of his beer.

  Mention of a wolf gave Twitcher goosebumps. “What wulf?” he inquired.

  “Thon wulf, ye pure mad dafty!” Oxter snarled. Ever the peacemaker, Mowdiewarp added, “The wulf what wis wi’ t’ fashious lass.” Her that was responsible for Oxter’s sore foot, and Mowdiewarp’s bruised shin, and the fact that one had been flung onto a rooftop and the other into a wall.

  Twitcher studied his own pint doubtfully. Maybe he’d drunk more than he thought.

  And maybe his companions were having one over on him. It wouldn’t be the first time. He squinted at Oxter. “An’ then yer arse fell aff.”

  “Get off yer arse, ye auld weegie bampit!” Impatiently, Oxter reminded Twitcher of the bit of bother they’d encountered while trying to carry out a simple chore, to wit snatching up a certain bit of merchandise and delivering it as arranged, and if one of them wasn’t such a gamaleerie, the plan wouldna hae gone agley.

  “It wisnae me. I dinna!” Twitcher protested. “I wis in t’ tavern, drunk as David’s sow.”

  Mowdiewarp wrinkled his b
row. “Who wis David, then?” Twitcher had to confess that he didn’t know.

  Oxter thumped his fist upon the table. “Ye’re goin’ doolally. Mayhap it’ll all come back if I gie ye a chaup on the heid.”

  Maybe someone had given Oxter a chaup, causing him to spin tall tales. Twitcher turned to Mowdiewarp, who shook his head. “I wisnae in the tavern, then?”

  Mowdiewarp looked as sympathetic as was possible for a man who resembled a mole. “Nay. Ye had the lass tossed o’er yon shoulder like a potato sack.” He swallowed. “An’ then—”

  He’d had a lass tossed over his shoulder? Twitcher was black affronted. True, not many lasses cast their eyes in his direction, but if one had done so, he hoped he would have better manners than to treat her like a sack of potatoes. “I ne’er!” he said.

  Oxter grimaced. “He’s aff ‘is heid.”

  “I’m no’!”

  Mowdiewarp patted Twitcher’s arm. “Ye are looking a bit peely-wally, son. Let’s call each other no more names. Like it or no’, we’ve a bit o’ work to do.”

  Twitcher might be a little slow of understanding, but he wasn’t altogether a numptie. He squinted at Mowdiewarp. “The lass?”

  “The lass wi’ the wulf,” explained Oxter. “An’ the bogey.”

  Twitcher was getting a headache. It had something to do with livers being cut out and intestines wrapped around necks. “Hing aff us. There’s nae sich thing.”

  “Hah!” retorted Oxter, and reached for his pint.

  “Saw it mesel’,” interrupted Mowdiewarp, in an attempt to prevent hostilities from deteriorating into a right rowdy-do. “ ‘Twas tall as a building — had to be, did it no’, t’throw me atop one? Eyes as red as fire. And thon teeth—” He shuddered.

  Twitcher shuddered also, at a faint memory of sharp fangs. “Wha’ aboot t’ lass w’ her wulf and her bogey? No’ that I believe a word o’ it!”

  “Believe it.” Oxter gestured for another pint. “We’re to snatch ‘er up agin. An’ if we fail this time—” He made a slashing gesture across his throat. “Tha’ll be the lot o’ us. Unco’ deid.”